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They’d been running for a while.
In a motel somewhere on the edge of Beacon County there’s a bullet-riddled t-shirt knotted by its hem. Gunmetal grey, stretched at the neck. Now stretched everywhere. Repurposed tourniquet. The old blood stains are barely visible anymore. It had been hastily rinsed in a gas station bathroom. And then another. Three days apart. Then again in the curtainless shower. The new stains are barely worth batting an eye at. Flecks and blots that could probably pass as evidence of being lived in. Like that one blue shirt with the tomato sauce stains from pasta night two years ago. Or those distressed jeans that took on new meaning when the blue-inked pen exploded in its right pocket a month after the edge of the knee rip got caught by a stubborn twig that tore the pant leg wide open. Both had survived, and continued to be lived in. This tourniquet could be repurposed— into a t-shirt. To be lived in. Flecks and blots of blood and all. There’s a book of names in a knapsack by the bed. The sheets have been stripped and Scott McCall is sitting with arms wrapped around his knees, the bottom half of his spine flush against the chipped wood of the brown door of room 216.
There’s a low, explosive hissing in his head.
-
They come upon a familiar clearing in the woods where their names had been carved into a tree. The strokes are short and shallow, but etched with conviction: Scott McCall. Vernon Boyd.
Scott hides his flush behind a fist and trudges past the old hackberry, knees high to avoid tripping over underbrush.
Vernon smiles after him, and stops. He lifts a hand and traces the years-old tree wound. Scott McCall. Vernon Boyd. His palm rests against the bark, like a shield for each letter, against the elements and the rest of the forest.
Scott spins and takes a few steps backwards. He raises his arms, holds them wide and puffs his chest. Vernon quickly clenches his teeth to match the cocky facade Scott throws up. (It’s a few shades off the mark but there’s always points for effort, and he’s had a dime-sized soft spot for Scott since they were seven.)
When he calls out, “Now who’s slowing us down?” Vernon tries not to scoff and fails. It comes out sharp, almost condescending. But Scott raises a brow at the hand still glued to the tree— like he automatically wins whatever game they’re playing that way. The one they carved their names into with a pocket knife Vernon always hid in the second-smallest compartment of his knapsack. For emergencies, he’d shrugged. Scott had stared wide-eyed at the silver-glinted flick, followed its every stroke as Vernon stretched and got started on a number 5 desperately trying to be an S. Scott hadn’t said anything but Vernon’s shoulders hunched from embarrassment and he whispered about the tree being wet. Scott could have challenged that it hadn’t rained in a week, but he stayed silent and watched as Vernon skillfully carved a heavily stylised M, then two small Cs. He could have mentioned that the second one was supposed to be big but he stayed silent, lips stretched in amusement. Buzzing with affection. It was a Wednesday afternoon.
“It’s still you,” he calls back, like he’d won before Scott even had a chance.
Scott grins.
Vernon doesn’t move.
They’re supposed to be running. Training for endurance, or something… Scott’s still not sure how he got roped into hauling himself from the other end of town— on dead-tired legs— through the preserve. But it usually starts with a teasing smirk and a shot at his ability to keep up. You’ve always been shit at running laps. I’ve seen you at practice. (Scott doesn’t ask how or even why he’s seen him at practice.) And ends with him in a hands-on-knees crouch, heaving his organs through his mouth, failing to catch his breath. The end is usually followed by the epilogue where Vernon hands him a bottle he’s sipped from and claps him on the shoulder with a smile. And maybe that’s how it starts too, because Scott likes the way Vernon squeezes and says, “Not bad. You’re pretty good actually.” Scott likes it even more when he says he’s probably better than the ROTC-member-of-the-week Vernon decides Scott could probably outrun. If Scott had a better memory he’d start a list, but even without one he knows he's never heard the same name twice.
“That’s it? Done for today?”
Vernon doesn’t intend to answer, but Scott doesn’t even wait. He high-knees it over all the underbrush with arms swinging by his side. He stops just shy of the tree.
Scott takes a quick glance at Vernon’s hand, at his fingers probably sullied by bark and old wood.
Vernon says, “Forgot that was there.”
There’s no chance he had, Scott is sure. But he just smirks, “You’re kind of sentimental, aren’t you?”
Vernon levels him with a half-lidded stare. “That can’t be a real question.”
Scott’s face scrunches like he’s trying to rein in an open-mouth smile. “Yeah.” Yeah, it isn’t a real question. Yeah, he knows Vernon is sentimental. Yeah he gets why he’s still here, holding on to the relic they left of themselves all those years ago.
“Exactly.”
“So?”
“I dunno,” Vernon averts his gaze, his other hand coming up to swipe across the back of his neck. “Guess I just didn’t think I’d be here…”
“In the preserve?”
An unimpressed stare. The one Scott gets when Vernon is tired of having to spell everything out. Put words to the voice in his head. But Scott likes it when he’s honest. He’d ask a million questions if it meant Vernon would talk more.
“Here as in. Here. With you.”
“Why wouldn’t I be here?”
“Scott,” comes out between the folds of a long-suffering sigh.
He grins, steps closer. “I get it.”
“I know you do. Don’t make me say it out loud.”
Scott drags a finger across the bark, rests his thumb over the V that looks more like an X that he carved on a Wednesday afternoon with a pocket knife that belonged to neither of them.
“I could say it.”
“Say… what exactly?”
“I’m kind of glad I’m here.” He’s still smiling. “I’m really glad you’re still here. It’s been a rough few years.”
Vernon sobers, Scott can tell. He’s staring at the hand on the tree. At Scott’s hand on the tree.
“We’ll still be here though, in the next few years. I’ll make sure.”
Vernon lets the words settle between them. Barely breathes while they study each other’s faces, trading conviction. I believe you. I’ll make sure. I believe you. I’ll make sure.
Scott slides his palm over Vernon’s hand and squeezes. “My B really sucks.”
Vernon’s laugh is full-bellied. “There’s not one letter here that makes sense to anyone besides us.”
Scott grins, takes a second to raise his brows as if to say, maybe that’s a good thing, that this is just for us, that no one else will know.
-
They’d been running for a while.
In a motel room somewhere on the edge of Beacon County Vernon Boyd is in a bathroom with walls barely one-and-a-half-the-span-of-his-shoulders apart rinsing blood out of a gunmetal grey shirt. Scott McCall is on the floor behind the room door, palms flat on linoleum and head between his knees.
“Here.”
“Thanks…”
Scott takes the offered sweater. It’s bigger than him. Much, much bigger than him. But he brings it to his face and breathes in, long and slow. He’s shaking. Vernon sits at the very edge of the bed with hands clasped in front of him. They don’t make eye contact.
Scott takes a sip of water and holds up the bottle in offer to Vernon. There’s a moment when it feels real, like they’re the same teenaged boys who shared sips after gruelling runs through the woods. But Scott’s blood is on the plastic, in the ridges. Vernon shakes his head, no thanks. Watches Scott’s face fall.
“You need it more,” he reasons.
Scott doesn’t argue.
The room is silent for a few dreadful minutes.
When he coughs Vernon tenses, shoulders tight and feet flat on the ground. And Scott wants to apologise for making him worry, wishes he could have apologised before the sound came out.
“You okay?”
“I’ll heal.”
He’s right. Vernon knows it, too. But there’s a heavy tension hanging in the room, thickest in the few feet between them. Because Scott had been shot and he didn’t stop bleeding for a while. Way longer than any of them did anymore. Vernon had panicked, snatched the shirt from the knapsack and put his ROTC training to use. Tried to stop the bleeding as best as he could. It had worked. But there was no solace to be found in that. He shouldn’t have had to do it in the first place.
“Sorry,” Vernon mumbles with his head hung low, elbows on his knees and his eyes closed. “For dragging you into this.”
Scott’s eyebrows knit together but his voice is barely a whisper, “You didn’t. I chose to follow you. Whatever happens…”
Vernon meets his eyes.
“Whatever happens, is because I want to be here. I want to help you find her. Find Alicia.”
“What if…”
“We know she’s alive, Boyd. I know it’s— it must be… really hard to even believe it now but… we have evidence. What happened today, what’s been happening to us… that just confirms it. And so did Derek." He hesitates for a moment then adds, "And my Mom." There’s a hardness to his voice when he breaks the ensuing silence. "She’s out there. We’re gonna find her.”
The image of Scott— screaming in agony as a bullet pierces his arm, tears right through muscle and cartilage— flashes through his mind. Him falling to the ground, bleeding out, right in front of Vernon who could do nothing but stare at the thick, viscous pooling of black blood. He shakes his head, voice breaking, “Scott— Scott, I can’t let you get hurt. I can’t because—”
“I’d do it again.”
Vernon clenches his fists.
“I care about you. I care for you. I’d do it again.”
They stare at each other.
Scott whispers, “If it's for you… if it means saving you. I’d do it again. If it means we get her back, I’ll do anything, Boyd. I’d do anything. I’ll bring her back. I’ll make sure she’s safe.”
“Scott…”
“I’ll make sure.”